


We Stand Together

by LeMousquetaireFemme (missdarcy)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missdarcy/pseuds/LeMousquetaireFemme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for 1x04 - The Good Soldier. </p><p>'D’Artagnan had headed back to his lodgings a good hour ago, but Athos and Porthos were still sat inside the garrison, watching their friend exhibiting the same thousand yard stare that he had had five years ago, after Savoy, and currently unsure as to what they should do about it...'</p><p>They promised him, after Savoy, that they would stand together - the Three Musketeers. But they let him down, or so he felt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Survivors

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I own nothing even remotely related to BBC's Musketeers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos, he knew, had been growing increasingly restless as the day went on. He had a sixth sense for these things, and Porthos trusted Athos’ sixth sense. Something was wrong, and he would not rest easy until Aramis, with his easy smile and feathered hat, was sat back in the garrison...

Porthos POV.

Aramis was sat in the courtyard in front of the Garrison, his leather uniform and wide brimmed hat having long since lost any protection that they offered him from the rain. He was staring at the armoury – the place, Porthos knew, he had had to shoot Marsac – but it was clear that Aramis wasn’t seeing the garrison.

D’Artagnan had headed back to his lodgings a good hour ago, but Athos and Porthos were still sat inside the garrison, watching their friend exhibiting the same thousand yard stare that he had had five years ago, after Savoy, and currently unsure as to what they should do about it.

 

* * *

**5 Years Prior**

‘Gentlemen,’ called down Captain Treville to the musketeers practicing their swordplay in the yard. ‘Gather round, I have news.’

Porthos exchanged an uneasy glance with Athos. The troupe of Musketeers, which included Aramis, sent down to Savoy on a training exercise should have been back in Paris a day ago; there was still no sign or even word of their arrival. Athos, he knew, had been growing increasingly restless as the day went on. He had a sixth sense for these things, and Porthos trusted Athos’ sixth sense. Something was wrong, and he would not rest easy until Aramis, with his easy smile and feathered hat, was sat back in the garrison, along with his fellow Musketeers. Captain Treville’s words destroyed all hope of that, however.

‘I have received news from Savoy,’ he announced in his brusque tone. ‘The night before last, a Spanish Raiding Party happened across the site where our Musketeers were camping. I am told – I am told that there were no survivors.’

For  Porthos , it was like he had been punched in the gut, and he sat down heavily onto a barrel which was conveniently placed behind him. Athos, he saw, had gone white, and his eyes were suspiciously bright. Athos had not been a Musketeer himself for very long - he had been driven to Paris by some dark secret of his past.  Porthos  and  Aramis  had been there first, but very quickly after Athos joined the regiment, t he three musketeers had naturally gravitated towards one another. E ach had his own secrets  and vices, and each brought out a good side in the others. Of course, Athos was the unspoken leader of their little group, but it was more than that, they were friends. It was unconscionable that Aramis was gone.

By the time he had managed to break out of his thoughts and regain some composure, Captain Treville was rounding up his speech. ‘I will need a few of you to go down and secure the site; a few more to follow with a cart to bring back our fallen men.’

Obviously, Porthos and Athos volunteered to go down first. They could not, would not, have had it any other way. And so they found themselves riding down to Savoy, in silence, as each digested the news.

_No survivors. No survivors. No survivors._

The words were ringing around in Porthos’ head with increasing intensity, his head throbbing as the news really began to sank in. A glance over at Athos told him that his thoughts had taken a rather predictable route of self-loathing, although for the life of him, Porthos did not know how Athos could have prevented this tragedy. Life would not be the same without Aramis in it. _Who’s going to stich me up now?_ Porthos thought.

‘I can certainly imagine that our scars will become rather more unsightly’ agreed Athos dryly. Porthos had not realised he had spoken aloud.

 

* * *

Athos POV

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Athos heard Porthos ask who was going to stitch him up now that Aramis was gone.

‘I can certainly imagine that out scars will become rather more unsightly’, Athos agreed dryly, his voice steady and betraying none of his inner turmoil.

Athos had always been good at that – disguising his emotions. It was clear from a quick glance to his left that Porthos had not even realised that he had spoken aloud. Athos could not blame him.

_No survivors. No survivors. No survivors._

He had been thinking, and rethinking about Captain Treville’s speech repeatedly in the hours since they had left Paris, wondering what would have happened if he had volunteered to go on the mission, knowing logically that if twenty two elite Musketeers had not stood a chance, that one more man would not have made a difference. The silence that had settled upon the two companions was overbearing, and he felt like he should say something if only to fill the long gaps filled only by the noise of hooves upon the road, but he could not. Anything that he would say would only depress them further. Athos was the deep one; Porthos, the jovial one, but Aramis, Aramis was the one with the witty remarks, and he could not find it within him to fill the gap that Aramis should have filled. So he stayed silent.

Eventually, they reached the clearing where Captain Treville had told him they would find their fallen comrades, and he sucked in a harsh breath at the sight. The tents were all still standing; the occasional pair of ownerless boots stood outside them. There were bodies, it seemed, everywhere, covered in a light dusting of snow that told him that these poor people had been out here for a while. The air smelt of a heavy mix of blood and smoke. Porthos looked nauseous; Athos had to close his eyes and steel himself for the task that lay ahead. How could anyone prepare themselves to identify the bodies of twenty-two of their friends, cut down so horribly, in their prime?

‘We should get started,’ he croaked out. ‘The carts will be here soon.’

Porthos nodded, uncharacteristically sober.

It took them the best part of two hours to move and identify each body. But when they met in the middle, their eyes met, and the two friends realised that two musketeers were missing from the grisly ensemble.

Athos’ breath hitched. Could it be – was it possible?

The eerie quiet was broken by Porthos’ cry.


	2. Searching for Aramis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porthos’ voice escaped before he even realised what he was intending to do. Athos started in surprise, and then he joined the call, both desperately hoping their voices would reach ears that could still hear...

Porthos POV

‘ARAMIS!’

Porthos’ voice escaped before he even realised what he was intending to do. Athos started in surprise, and then he joined the call, both desperately hoping their voices would reach ears that could still hear.

Porthos was not sure how he would react if the tiny shred of hope that had awoken in him at the realisation that Aramis was not amongst the bodies in the camp was dashed now.  He was vaguely aware that they should be looking for Marsac as well, but Aramis was at the front of the minds of both men.

‘ARAMIS! ARAMIS!’

There was no reply, aside from the sudden scatter of a flock of birds that had been perched in some trees nearby.

Porthos looked hopelessly towards Athos, who was wearing what Aramis, rather ironically, liked to call his ‘serious face’. If he hadn’t been feeling so desperate he might have smiled as that thought popped, from nowhere, into his mind. Athos made a series of hand gestures that Porthos took to mean that they should begin to look through the trees around the perimeter of the camp, and so he set off through the cold, damp undergrowth, keeping his eyes peeled for any signs of his best friend.

Half an hour later, the two men had nearly covered the entire perimeter of the camp, and Porthos was beginning to feel confusion mix in with his despair – _where the hell was he? –_ when Athos tripped up beside him. Porthos looked down to see that it was a discarded Musketeer uniform that had caused his friend to fall, and that not ten metres from where he had landed, lay –

‘ARAMIS!’

Athos, who had been dusting himself off, looked around sharply, but Porthos paid no mind as he leapt forward with shaking hands to see if his friend was alive or not. Aramis was propped up against a tree, as still and as silent as death. He had a head wound that had been clumsily bandaged by someone, and he was cold, too cold, but to Porthos’ utter disbelief, there was a pulse. It was faint, but a pulse was a pulse, and that meant he was alive.

‘I don’t believe it,’ he whispered, almost reverently. And then, louder, disbelievingly: ‘he’s got a pulse, he’s alive!’

This proclamation hung in the air for a minute, and Porthos absently marvelled at the astounded expression he had managed to put on Athos’ face, and then the two men pulled themselves together, springing into action, all thoughts of Marsac forgotten as they whipped off their cloaks and began wrapping Aramis up from head to toe in a bid to warm him up. Athos ran back into the camp and quickly came back with more blankets, and when they were satisfied, they lifted their friend carefully and placed him into one of the tents, to get him away from the damp of the forest floor.

This all took less than ten minutes, and it wasn’t until they were satisfied with things as they were and stood back from their friend to think, that Porthos realised that both of them had had tears streaming down their faces the whole time.

Funny. Neither of them had shed a tear when they thought that their friend was dead, but discovering him alive – barely alive, but alive nonetheless – was obviously too much for them both. Athos was furiously wiping at his cheeks, trying to hide the evidence. Athos did not cry. Pretending not to have noticed, Porthos’ mind began to get back into gear.

 

* * *

 Athos POV

‘Okay – who the hell bandaged him, and how did he get away from the camp?’

Athos sucked in a deep breath to steady himself and then turned his mind to Porthos’ question. It was a good one. Then he remembered that they were still missing a musketeer. ‘Did you see any sign of Marsac when we were searching for Aramis?’

‘No, not a thing.’

‘You don’t think – ‘ Athos stopped.

‘What?’

‘You don’t think he – deserted?’ Athos’ words echoed around the clearing where the two men were stood. ‘It fits – ‘

‘The uniform. He dragged Aramis away from the camp, took off his uniform and then took off himself. Bastard!’ Porthos swore in dawning realisation.

‘Yes, but there’s more than that.’ said Athos. ‘Clearly, no one had been here since the… massacre,’ he spat the word, ‘until we arrived. And if there were no survivors, and no one had come across the camp, then only Marsac could have sent the message to the Captain…’

‘Why?’ said Porthos, hoarsely. ‘Why would he say there were no survivors?’

‘In all fairness, there nearly weren’t. I still don’t know if Aramis – ‘ the rattling of wheels on the road near where they had left their horses stopped Athos from finishing his sentence, but the meaning of it was still pretty clear.

_I still don’t know if Aramis is going to survive._

Porthos had clearly realised what Athos had left unspoken, as he looked absolutely stricken. There was a reason that Athos was the unspoken leader of this particular trio of Musketeers – his ability to keep a cool head in any situation and so, leaving Porthos to stay with Aramis whilst a surgeon was called, Athos strode over to where the newly-arrived Musketeers were climbing down from the cart and explained the situation. Someone was quickly despatched to the nearest village to fetch help for Aramis; the others began to load the bodies of their fallen friends onto the back of the cart.

Orders issued, Athos strode back over to the tent were Aramis lay. Porthos was in the process of cleaning the wound on Aramis’ head.

‘I’ve sent for a surgeon. I’d rather we had him looked at before we move him anywhere.’

Porthos nodded, but did not look up from what he was doing.

‘He’s regaining some colour’ Athos noted. It was true – when they had first found Aramis in the forest he had been an appalling shade of grey. He looked far from healthy now, but the shade of his skin was certainly less sickening than it had been.

Again, Porthos nodded at his remark, but made no response. Athos could understand – his contribution made, he found he had nothing further to say, and nor did he want to. He had spent the entire day believing that his friend was dead – he would stay detached, for now. If Aramis had indeed been dead, Athos knew he would have been well into his cups by now. As it was, the flask that hung at his hip was calling to him – but if Aramis died _now,_ he felt, it would be much worse.

Much, much worse.

A new clatter of hooves announced the arrival of the surgeon.


	3. Survivor's Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even with his physical wounds on the mend, it took another two days for Aramis to recover enough from the journey to go in to the garrison and tell Captain Treville what had happened...

Aramis had remained unconscious for a full day and a half after his discovery, which was worrying in itself, as it could be attributed to any one of a number of causes – shock, the head injury, the hypothermia... Athos had sent the rest of the Musketeers back to Paris with a strict message for Captain Treville – _Aramis is alive, but do not expect us to leave him._ The lack of a messenger giving orders to the contrary indicated to him and Porthos that their message was accepted, loud and clear. 

They were briefly encouraged when Aramis showed signs of coming around, but when he did finally wake; everyone was worried even further, because he was in a high fever and an almost constant state of delirium. He constantly mistook the Surgeon for his Spanish attackers, Athos for Marsac, and kept calling for Porthos, ignorant of the fact that his friends – neither of them – had left his side since they had taken him to the Inn in which they now found themselves.

Eventually, the surgeon proposed placing the man in a cold bath. It would either break the fever, or finish him off completely. They didn't like it, but it the fever was too dangerous to let continue. To the relief of everyone present, it broke the fever. They had just settled their friend back onto the bed, when Aramis, his eyes losing the glassy look they had had only that morning, turned to look at his friends and recognised them for the first time.

‘Porthos?’ he had asked, voice strained. ‘Athos?’

‘We are here, my friend,’ Athos answered quietly, taking a seat at the edge of the bed.

‘Yes, you are, aren’t you?’ Aramis replied, leaning back in the bed and closing his eyes wearily.

* * *

After another two days of recovery, Aramis was declared ready to make the journey back to Paris. They did all they could to make sure the journey would cause their friend as little distress as possible, then hoisted their friend onto a horse and took it in turns to ride with him. The journey was a long one; Aramis flew into a panic every time a group of strangers passed them on the road. As they drew nearer to Paris, they had to stop at a local inn and sedate him, or they never would have got anywhere. All three friends were exhausted. Aramis, to the surprise of nobody, was not sleeping. In turn, neither were Porthos or Athos.

Even with his physical wounds on the mend, it took another two days for Aramis to recover enough from the journey to go in to the garrison and tell Captain Treville what had happened. He had announced that morning that he needed to go and do it. Athos and Porthos exchanged surprised glances, not having expected Aramis to be ready for that yet, and both had breathed a sigh of relief. They wanted – no, needed – to know what happened just as much as Aramis needed to tell it. How else, they wondered, could they help their friend? So, by unspoken agreement, his friends flanked him, one on either side as they made their way to the Captain’s office. Aramis felt safer with his friends there. He was not sure he would ever have left his rooms without their silent support.

Captain Treville, wearing an unreadable expression, had ushered the three into the office, and pushing a glass of spiced wine into Aramis’ slack hands, had taken a seat behind his desk. He asked no questions, he said nothing; he simply waited until Aramis was ready to begin.

‘We finished the training exercise just before sunset.’ It was clearly taking an awful lot for Aramis to force the words out, so Porthos placed his hand on one shoulder. The message was clear – _you are not alone._ Visibly taking strength from the gesture, Aramis was able to continue. ‘There was no use in setting off – we’d have had to ride through the night, so we decided to leave at first light.’ he cleared his throat. ‘I suppose it was about two in the morning when they came. Even if we hadn’t all been sleeping, we were outnumbered. At least ten of our men had their throats slit before we even realised what was going on.’

Porthos looked nauseous; Athos pale and even Captain Treville looked distressed. Aramis noticed none of it. He was staring at a spot somewhere above the Captains head, but clearly was seeing the scenes at Savoy, once more. It was the first time either Athos or Porthos had really noticed the stare; every day that had passed since the massacre had thus far been spent ensuring that Aramis remained in the land of the living, and then getting him back to Paris. Behind him, they exchanged a look. Had they not already known it, the stare alone told them there was a long hard battle in front of them.

‘We fought, best as we could but it was futile, really. I took a blow to the head. I remember feeling the blood… I thought that was it. I don’t remember anything else about the attack… the next thing I remember after that was coming to the next morning. Marsac was sat amongst our friends. Then he got up, took off his uniform and left. I wasn’t conscious long enough to do anything – my next coherent thought after that is with Athos and Porthos at the inn.’

His story concluded, Aramis fell silent. He did not say another word for three days; he simply stared at the wall. Athos and Porthos took it in turns to sit with him. During the day, Porthos would talk to his catatonic friend, expecting no reply but chatting away nonetheless, trying to distract his friend from the pictures running through his head. Athos would sit with Aramis in companionable silence. Together, they would help Aramis eat when his hands shook too much even to lift a glass to his mouth.

The nights were the worst – Aramis’ sleep was fitful, at best, and he frequently woke from night terrors, silent screams tumbling from his lips.

* * *

‘Why am I here?’ he said one day. Athos, who had been staring at the table, looked up in surprise. Aramis had finally ripped his attention away from the wall and was now looking at him morosely. Athos was both encouraged by the words and confused at their meaning; Aramis must have read his expression, for he elaborated.

‘Why am I here? Why did I survive when no one else did? My brothers – my brothers…’ Aramis trailed off, hot tears falling down his face. Athos was relieved to see the tears come; Aramis had shown no real emotion since they had found him in that godforsaken forest and he knew that it was necessary if Aramis was ever really to recover. Still; he hoped Porthos would return soon; he was much better at words.

For a moment or two, he simply held his friend as he wept; and then he remembered the words of the _pére_ who had buried his brother. ‘Man’s days are determined; you have decreed the number of his months and have set limits he cannot exceed.’

Aramis looked up. ‘Job?’

Athos nodded. ‘You did not fail them, Aramis. You are here with us because it was not your time to go. _We_ still need you, Porthos and I.’

The words were clearly making their way through the foggy haze, but Aramis looked sceptical. ‘What use am I, a man who could not help his brothers?’ he said, bitterly.

‘You are of all the use in the world,’ Porthos’ voice came from behind them, making Athos start in surprise. ‘You are our brother, too, Aramis. Just as you have stood with us before, we stand with you now.’

Atthos’ hand clapped Aramis’ shoulder. ‘We stand together’.

It was more a promise than it was a simple statement, and Aramis felt all the sincerity of it. The corners of his mouth tipped up slightly. It was not a smile, not yet, but it was a start.

Together, they would move on from Savoy.


	4. The Good Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Aramis thought bitterly, I don’t know what their idea of standing together is, but it certainly doesn’t match mine...

Athos POV

Athos, to his later shame, had not immediately realised, when the Captain called him into his office and told him of the Duke’s impending visit, just how hard the next few weeks would be hard on Aramis. The four of them had been stood on parade, and Athos had asked what was wrong with Aramis.

 _What’s wrong with Aramis?_ He had scolded himself for that later. What a ridiculous question. What else would be wrong with Aramis?

‘Have you forgotten Savoy?’ Porthos had asked, with a raised eyebrow.

Athos was about to reply that _of course he hadn’t forgotten Savoy,_ when D’Artagnan, to his left, asked what had happened there. And then the Duke had arrived, and the assassination attempt had been made, and all thoughts of Aramis fled his consciousness, for the time being.

* * *

Aramis POV

‘Hello, old friend. Don’t make me kill you.’ The voice was as welcome as it wasn’t.

‘Marsac?’

Five years had gone by since the Savoy Massacre; five years had gone by since he had last heard that voice. In the first few days after his fever broke, that voice was the only one he had really wanted to hear – the only other man who had survived Savoy. It had taken the gentle words of Athos and Porthos and several weeks for Aramis to think far beyond Marsac; a good few months before his easy nature was back, altered perhaps, but there in fundamentals.

He had been anticipating something ever since he had found Cornet, dead in that icy forest, anticipating that something was going to happen soon - later, Aramis reflected that _of course,_ he should have expected that were ever Marsac to turn up again, it  _would_ be when the Duke of Savoy was in Paris.. 

The allegations that Marsac brought with him were quite frankly alarming… could it be possible that the massacre at Savoy had not been down to a Spanish raiding party at all but instead, at the fault of his captain?

The whole thing was deeply unsettling. Aramis did not remember much about the weeks that had followed the massacre in Savoy; only that he would not be where he was now without the unwavering support of Athos and Porthos. Even so, he did not confide in his two brothers immediately that he had taken Marsac to the home of Madame Bonacieux, not until D’Artagnan forced his hand.

He was not sure why that should be. In the five years since the massacre, since ‘We stand together’, an evening which he thought he would look upon with perpetual fondness, he and his brothers had always had each other’s backs. _All for one and one for all,_ that was the motto of the three inseparables. There was no real reason why that would not still hold true: Athos and Porthos both knew that the news that the Duke of Savoy was visiting had unsettled him. He supposed it was because no matter what they said, a shred of self-doubt had always lingered.  

 _What use_ _am I, a man who could not help his brothers?_ That was the question he had posed. Would they stand beside him, a failure, as opposed to their Captain, a man who all three held dear as having given them new starts at one stage or another?

No, Aramis didn’t know what to make of it all. What he did know, was that as Marsac’s claims began to be proven true, a fire took hold deep in his belly that drove him to pursue the truth. Aramis was happy for the most part; but he had never buried the ghosts of Savoy in his mind, and for all his womanising and _joie de vivre,_ a week never went by where he did not find himself back in that forest at least once.

So Aramis clung to their promise. _We stand together._ They would help.

They did help, a little. He did not notice at first how reluctant they were.

* * *

Athos POV

Athos was not sure why he had reacted so strongly to the revelation that Aramis had stowed Marsac away in the home of Madame Bonacieux, instead of turning him into the authorities. Aramis had clearly taken the man’s information and turned the whole situation into some kind of personal mission.

Some ugly little part of him, right in the back of his mind, was questioning why Aramis was so worked up about this. Five years had passed, after all. Why now? Why take the words of a man who had left him for dead in the forest as true? The Captain had more honour in his little finger than Marsac had in his whole body.

He ignored the little niggle that told him that wasn’t entirely true.

* * *

 Porthos POV

 ‘Yeh know, he isn’t eating’

‘What?’ Porthos turned around to find Serge standing behind him. ‘Who isn’t?’

‘Aramis, o’ course’ said Serge.

Porthos removed his hat and ran a hand wearily through his hair, beckoning Athos over.

‘Serge tells me that Aramis isn’t eating.’ Athos’ expression was unreadable.

‘It’s all this business with the Duke.’ said Serge. ‘Stirring up bad memories for ‘im.’ and he shuffled away.

Athos and Porthos exchanged a look. After Savoy, it had taken weeks to coax Aramis into eating more than the bare amount needed to keep him alive. It had unsettled Porthos particularly, for whatever reason, and he did not like to hear that his friend was slipping back into bad habits.

Aramis had been like a man possessed since Marsac’s return on the day of the parade, and Porthos knew exactly why that was. He himself was very unsettled by the information that was steadily coming to light – it certainly suggested some uncomfortable conclusions, and Porthos considered for a moment that he and Athos should have helped Aramis some more with his little investigation. However, it was only for a moment, and Porthos would not realise until he had had the opportunity for some self-reflexion that he was allowing a blind dislike of Marsac to colour his perception of the truth. This was a man who had left their friend for dead in the cold forests of Savoy for two days until Aramis had been discovered alive, entirely by accident.

And instead of mentioning all these thoughts to Athos, he said instead, rather lamely, ‘we need to nip that in the bud.’

* * *

 Aramis POV

He eventually realised, of course, that the help he had expected was rather begrudgingly forthcoming.

Twice, he tried to get through to his friends, his brothers, to show them how much he needed their help. He _needed_ to find out the truth, but he couldn’t do it alone. Aramis knew that this was his opportunity – perhaps his last opportunity – to lay the Ghosts of Savoy to rest at last. But even in the face of glaring evidence, they were hesitant.

He had pointed out the strange anomaly in the Captain’s filing system – why was that one individual operation missing in records of every operation the regiment had ever conducted? – and he had been met with pure indifference. D’Artagnan had suggested that perhaps Aramis just hadn’t found them, clinging to the existence of a perfectly good explanation that _just wasn’t there and how could they not see that?!_

‘Something is badly wrong – what does it take to make you act?!’ he had exclaimed.

And Athos had retorted with irritating tranquillity and total confidence. ‘I will never believe the Captain is a traitor‘

Aramis couldn’t believe it. ‘You think I want to?’ he had countered, just as swiftly. Athos had not replied, and Aramis had had to accept defeat, thinking that ( _surely_ ) once they had presented their concerns to the Captain, then they would realise.

But once that had happened even he with his generally optimistic nature had had to acknowledge that his friends were not going to help him.

‘How much more proof do we need?’ he had cried.

‘Treville didn’t admit anything.’ D’Artagnan pointed out.

‘He didn’t need to. It was written on his face.’ Aramis said desperately.

‘The Captain is the finest man I’ve ever met, and when it comes down to it, I’d rather be on his side than Marsac’s!’ Porthos yelled, obviously feeling the first stirrings of anger at Aramis’ persistence.

Aramis had reeled back, stung by the vehemence of Porthos’ words. It occurred to him, briefly, to point out that he wasn’t _asking_ Porthos to be on Marsac’s _side,_ there were no sides, just truth and lies. No, he was asking that Porthos – and Athos, for that matter, hold to the promise they had made him all those years ago, and stand by him. They were the only people who could understand why he needed to get the answers to these questions. All he wanted was their help.

It was clear that he would not get it, and it was with the horrible feeling of his heart sinking below his knees that he realised it.

So he did not point out the obvious. Instead, swallowing the lump that had risen up in his throat, he said: ‘You may be content to do nothing. I am not.’

He left defeated, full of disappointed hopes, rain be damned. He could not have guaranteed that he would not lose his temper if he stayed. That was how Aramis found himself stalking along a stinking street in the middle of Paris, soaked to the bone, feeling like he had failed his brothers in Savoy all over again - and feeling utterly betrayed by his friends.

D’Artagnan, he supposed, he could let off. He had only known the boy a matter of months, and although he was very loyal, hedid not know what had happened in Savoy, not really, and more importantly, hehad never made the promise that the others had; to stand beside him.

Athos or Porthos could tick both of those boxes. They, of all people, knew what things had been like for him after Savoy. It had taken him months to get to a stage even remotely resembling normal, and it would not have happened without the unwavering support of his comrades, support that he needed now, and which he had not been offered. Had Aramis not stood beside them in their hours of need?

‘We stand together,’ Porthos had said. ‘We stand together’

 _Well,_ Aramis thought bitterly, _I don’t know what their idea of standing together is, but it certainly doesn’t match mine._

* * *

Athos POV

When Athos and Porthos got back from the Palace after the Duke had finally left the city, it was to find Captain Treville sat in his office with an unreadable expression and a bruise beginning to darken his left cheek.

‘I want to talk to you about Aramis.’ he said.

That was not the standard debriefing he had expected. The last time Aramis and the Captain were in the same room, his friend was being threatened with Court Martial for raising unwanted questions… _But why were they unwanted questions?_ The thought bubbled up unpleasantly. If the Captain was no traitor, he would have immediately dismissed Aramis’ allegations. But he didn’t.

‘Who killed those musketeers, and why?’ Aramis had demanded.

The Captain had just asked a question back: ‘Who have you been speaking to?’

_Those aren’t the words of an innocent._

Athos swallowed harshly and refocused his attention on the Captain.

‘You should know that Aramis shot Marsac this afternoon, while you were out.’

Porthos made a small noise of surprise. ‘He did?’

‘Yes. Marsac accosted me in the armoury. There was… a discussion. Marsac shot first – Aramis shot back.’

‘Aramis didn’t miss, one assumes?’ said Athos, an icy feeling settling in his gut as he realised the full implications of the fact that a discussion had taken place between the Captain, Marsac and Amaris at all. It rather suggested that Aramis’ quest had not been as unfounded as Athos had convinced himself it was. _Aramis had been right?_

‘You assume correctly.’ It was like the Captain had confirmed his unspoken question as much has his spoken one.

‘Damn.’ said Porthos. ‘Damn it, he’s going to be miserable.’

‘Hmm.’ The Captain grunted.  ‘Well that’s neither here nor there. Just, eh, keep an eye on him.’ The request was a rather personal one, coming from the Captain, anyway, and Athos could see, out of the corner of his eye, the exact moment when Porthos reached the same conclusion he had.

Blast. This was not going to be pretty.


	5. Together, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos made a sound of agreement. ‘All he was asking was that we keep an open mind. I – I’ve let him down, haven’t I?’

The two men broke out of their reflections. Aramis was still staring at the armoury. Porthos’ mouth twisted unhappily.

‘Bugger it all.’ Athos said eventually. ‘I assume you have reached the same conclusion I have?’

‘Unfortunately,’ Porthos grunted. ‘Aramis has been thinking of Savoy much more often of late - since we found Cornet and his troupe in that forest, you remember me telling you? I knew how much he had been tearing himself up over this visit, and I know how much Marsac’s information would unsettle him, and the last thing I said to him was that I didn’t want to take Marsac’s _side._ Never mind Aramis! He was right all along and I think that I knew it – it was Aramis said, the evidence was compelling... I just kept brushing him off.’

Athos wrung his hat in his hands. ‘Not just you. We both did. It wasn’t even like he was asking us to immediately condemn the Captain – just to consider it as possibility. He needed our help and instead… I told him I would never believe the Captain to be a traitor.’

‘Ouch.’ said Porthos. ‘I don’t think that I was there for that - I keep thinking about earlier, after we confronted the Captain.’

‘You and me both.’ Athos’ stomach was now churning with guilt. ‘I haven’t seen him look that defeated since after Savoy. You remember those three days where he was just silent?’

‘Remember it?’ Porthos asked, ‘Of course I remember it. I’m not sure I will ever forget it. Three days without a word, not even when we broke him out of his nightmares… I had started to think that we’d never get Aramis back.’

Athos made a sound of agreement. ‘All he was asking was that we keep an open mind. I – I’ve let him down, haven’t I?’

‘Don’t go down that road,’ Porthos snapped, ‘taking all the blame for yourself. I’ve only the fortitude to deal with _one_ morose musketeer this evening. You were not the only one he was hoping would stand by him. You were not the only one who let him down.’

Athos stared at him unhappily, and then looked back out to their friend in the yard. He was still staring at the armoury, but had also started to mechanically clean his musket. It was a nervous tick, of sorts, that he had developed after the massacre, that they had never been able to break him out of even after the mental scars had begun to heal. Aramis found some sort of reassurance in the repetition of the movement – and he only did it when he was at his most agitated, which was a rather worrying sign as to his current state of mind.  

They sat there for a few moments more. ‘I suggest,’ he offered, finally, ‘that we go and lend him the support that we should have offered him earlier.’

‘That will go down well,’ Porthos snorted. ‘Hello Aramis, sorry about all that, I’m here to help now that the situation has been resolved and there's nothing for me to do. Aramis has the most patience of any man I know in the world, but we've well and truly messed up this time. He’s going to be angry.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ Athos countered. ‘That does not mean we should not go to talk to him. He will only resent us more if we don’t. At the very least, we need to get him out of that rain before he catches a chill. God only knows how much time he spent out in it earlier.’

Porthos heaved a sigh and then got to his feet.

‘Come on then.’

* * *

They made their way over to their friend, adjusting the brims of their hats for protection against the rain. Aramis, it seemed, was oblivious. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and it obviously hadn’t even occurred to him that perhaps the downpour created less than ideal conditions for cleaning his weapon.

‘Aramis?’ Athos started, unusually hesitant. Aramis continued to stare towards the Armoury, giving no sign that he had heard Athos’ question or even their approach, but Athos wasn’t fooled. Aramis was always aware of his surroundings, always – he had been since Savoy, Athos realised guiltily.

‘Aramis, are you alright?’

Aramis’ eyes shot over towards his two friends, and Porthos shifted uncomfortably at the look in them. He had not realised it was possible for a pair of eyes to be empty and angry synonymously.

‘Oh yes.’ said Aramis in a monotone, ‘oh yes, I’m just _fine’._ He dragged out the last word in a tone of bitter sarcasm that did not suit him at all.

‘Aramis -’ tried Porthos, ‘Aramis, we heard what happened –‘

‘Did you now? You’ve heard that it’s all over so you have come to offer me your support?’

‘Aramis – we’re sorry.’

‘Do you _remember_ Savoy?’ Aramis asked abruptly; dangerously. ‘I heard Athos at the parade ground. _What’s wrong with Aramis?_ The three inseparables, you both know that’s what they call us. Well, you’ve been pretty bloody separate lately. I _needed_ you.’

The two musketeers on the wrong end of this rant looked contrite, but Aramis found that this just annoyed him more.

‘I’ll tell you what I told the Captain. We’re soldiers – we follow our orders no matter where they lead, even to death. You’ve obviously already worked out that I was right. You probably also know that there’s also more to the story, else I would not have protected that Captain from Marsac’s shot. But that’s not what I’m angry about. I’m angry because regardless of whatever the truth was, you both promised me, five years ago, that you would stand with me, as I have stood with you, and today when I needed you to hold to that promise, you did not.’

Somewhere in the middle of this speech, Aramis found that he had got to his feet, and that angry tears were pooling in his eyes. Before, when he had left his brothers after their fateful confrontation of the Captain, he had brushed them away, refusing to show Athos and Porthos how let down he felt. He made no such effort now.

Captain Treville, he noticed, was looking down on the confrontation from outside his office, in silent support of his Musketeer, now the sole survivor of Savoy. Treville felt the guilt as much as Athos and Porthos did. It did not appease him.

‘Aramis, I don’t know what to say to you other than apologise that we were not with you when you needed us. I – ‘ Porthos broke off at an angry look from Athos which screamed, _wrong thing to say!_

‘We stand together! That’s what you said!’ Aramis cried.

‘I know, and - ’

‘Forget it. I don’t want to deal with this right now.’ Aramis gave them one last bitter look and stormed out of the yard, Athos and Porthos looking hopelessly after him.

* * *

When they eventually broke themselves out of their shocked stupor, they dashed out into the street after their friend only to find that he had already gone.

‘Well that went well.’ said Porthos.

‘Idiot.’ Athos said. ‘Have you ever seen him that angry before?’

‘No, never. Not even after Savoy and god knows he had a right to be.’

‘What do we do now then?’

‘We go and find him.’ Porthos answered immediately.

Athos looked uncertain. ‘Are you sure? He would not prefer that we give him time to cool off?’

‘Without a doubt.’ said Porthos. ‘I have never seen him that angry before, but I have seen him angry, and I know that if we don’t go and find him now he’ll warp his anger into guilt at what he said to us, which you and I both know that we entirely deserved.’

And so they searched for their friend, long after Paris sank into darkness. But he was not at his lodgings, and nor was he at any of the taverns that the group frequented. By midnight, they were starting to get worried.

‘Where the bloody hell has he gone?’ Porthos asked, frustrated.

Athos took a swig from the flask at his hip, and then shook his head vigorously. He needed to return to his usual calm if they were going to get anywhere.

‘Let’s think from Aramis’ perspective. Where would you go, in the circumstances?’

Porthos thought hard for a few moments, and then gave a shout. ‘The cemetery! I’m certain of it. He’ll have gone to see his brothers – if he’s not there, he’ll be in one of the surrounding taverns.

Sure enough, one of the Tavern’s local to the cemetery was where they found their friend three quarters of an hour later, surrounded by empty bottles of wine and long since drunk. Athos almost did not spot him straight away when they entered the dingy room, but then he noticed the barmaid head over to a table in the very back corner with another bottle of wine. Aramis was looking completely despondent.

‘I told you he’d go on a massive guilt trip,’ said Porthos, looking worried as he weaved around tables and drunkards to get to this friend. The two musketeers took a seat either side of Aramis, who looked up blearily as they did so.

‘My brothers – my brothers…’ he muttered. ‘I have failed them again. My brothers…’

‘Oh, Aramis,’ Athos sighed, ‘self-loathing really is not your style. That tends to be my role...’

It was clear that any apologies offered, any gentle words of comfort would not make their way through Aramis’ alcohol induced stupor at this point, and so it was collectively decided that they needed to get Aramis back to his lodgings.

They heaved him up, throwing one of his arms over each of their shoulders, and carried him home, thanking their good fortune that they encountered no stray Red Guards on the way.

‘All alone, all alone,’ Aramis was growing agitated, trying to break free of his friends grip. ‘I'm the only one left, all alone,’ he slurred.

‘You are not alone,’ Porthos whispered into his ear, ‘I’m so sorry, Aramis. You are not alone. We are here. We will not leave you again. Never, ever again.’

The whispered litany seemed to calm him, and so Porthos kept it up until they had managed to get Aramis into his bed, where he promptly passed out. Athos took two chairs from the corner of the room and set them by the side of Aramis’ bed.

‘We stay here,’ he declared to Porthos. ‘It would not do him any good to wake up alone.’

Porthos took his seat without comment. He would had stayed even had Athos not suggested it. The two friends did not sleep, but kept silent watch over their best friend and hoping that their apology would go better received in the morning.

* * *

When the early morning light streamed through the window and woke Aramis the next morning, his first thought was that his head hurt a lot.

His second thought was that he needed to be quite violently sick.

It was only when he finished emptying his stomach that he registered that someone was rubbing comforting circles on his back as he did so. He knew immediately, of course, who it was. He did not know why they were there, though. He could not even find it within himself to be angry anymore, or even disappointed.

As Porthos had predicted, Aramis had used his many hours of drinking the night before to twist his anger into guilt and feelings of failure. He had failed his brothers, so he could not really be surprised that they had not wanted to stand with him. Why should they?

‘Stop that.’ came Athos’ voice sharply. ‘You are thinking entirely too loudly.’

‘Why are you here?’ asked Aramis, voice devoid of any emotion.

‘We are here,’ said Athos, more calmly, ‘because you are our brother and because we have failed you once and will not do so again.’

Aramis looked at the two musketeers in mute surprise.

‘Yes we did,’ replied Porthos. ‘Your anger was not misplaced, my friend. We promised you that we would stand together after Savoy, and when its ghosts came to haunt you once more, we did not abide by that promise.’

‘We have talked about it, Aramis. You do not remember what we do of Savoy. You do not remember the letter that told us you had died with our friends; you do not remember the fever that nearly took you. I disdained Marsac’s information because he lost any trust I had in him when he left you alone in that forest to die.’ Athos explained gently, and then, because Aramis looked about to argue; ‘No, it is true. But it was not Marsac, but _you_ who followed the information - _you_ found a reasonable line of inquiry, and we ignored you.’

‘I shot him.’ said Aramis hoarsely. ‘I shot him.’

‘We know,’ said Porthos simply. ‘We know and we are sorry for it. We are sorry that the other survivor of Savoy has gone. But that does not mean that you are alone. You will never be alone, and we will never let you down again!’ he said fiercely.

‘But – ’

‘No, Aramis. You were right, don’t you see? You were right about everything. About Savoy, about _us_.’

Slowly, slowly, Aramis started to believe it. It was irrelevant now, whether he was right or wrong. What mattered was that his brothers realised it, and for all yesterday’s failures, they were here now, they were here to help him in the aftermath, just as they had after Savoy, and they would be with him in the future.

Athos and Porthos looked at each other, and through unspoken agreement, repeated their words from long ago.

'You are our brother, too, Aramis. Just as you have stood with us before, we stand with you now.’

Porthos’ hand clapped Aramis’ shoulder. ‘We stand together’.

It had been said before, but this time they were older and wiser and all three of them had a better idea of what the words meant to each other. It had been more for Aramis’ benefit than anyone else’s, five years ago, but this time it was a mutual guarantee. And so Aramis said it back.

‘We stand together.’ he smiled, a proper smile, and it almost surprised him. He had not expected to smile so quickly after Marsac had left this world. The next few weeks would not be easy but now, he had faith that they would pass and the normal way of things would be restored.

* * *

They freshened up in silence, and headed to the garrison, Athos and Porthos flanking him on either side as they had before, and always would in the future, as Aramis now knew for sure.

D’Artagnan was waiting for them.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked, concerned.

‘No,’ said Aramis. ‘No, I’m not alright. But I will be’. And, adjusting his hat to a jaunty angle, he walked into the garrison, brothers at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! End of my very first fanfiction. Really hope you enjoyed it. I want to thank everyone for all your lovely comments, they've encouraged me to keep writing :)

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired to write this after re-watching 'The Good Soldier', partly because it's a good story and partly because I'm totally fangirling over Aramis at the moment. It's my first ever fanfiction - or at least, the first one I've ever plucked up enough courage to post - so while I welcome criticism, make it constructive, please :)


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